


notes in the margins

by underoriginal



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:22:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4892692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underoriginal/pseuds/underoriginal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Erestor almost figured out Glorfindel's (not actually) secret identity and one time he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	notes in the margins

I. Erestor watches from the gates as the small band of warriors enter the valley of Imladris. Their number is smaller than when they had set out, but he has almost grown used to this. As Sauron’s forces grow bolder, their numbers dwindle, falling in battle or taking to the Sea to escape.

As the warriors draw closer, Erestor realizes that there is a stranger among them, a tall, dark skinned figure wrapped in a dusty brown cloak. 

The stranger looks up as they pass under the gates and locks eyes with Erestor. The stranger’s eyes are deep brown but they glow with an inner fire Erestor has never seen before. The stranger rides at the right hand of Maethordis, the Captain of Elrond’s Guard.

Maethordis dismounts in front of Erestor and Erestor offers her his arm for support. Her leg is twisted beyond even Elrond’s repair, courtesy of a lucky warg. The only reason she still goes to war is that there are none with the skill to replace her as Captain.

“Lord Elrond sends word,” she says. “He says this ellon-” she gestures to the stranger “-is to be a guest in your care. He has words for your ears alone.”

With that, she takes her cane from the saddle and guides her horse to the stables, the rest of the Guard disbanding behind her. Only the stranger reminds behind.

“Suilad,” Erestor says, “I am Erestor of Imladris, Lord Elrond’s Chief Counsellor.”

The stranger removes his hood. His hair is the color of pure, polished gold and falls in thick ropes almost to his knees. He takes Erestor by the hand and kisses his cheek in the manner of the Elves of Valinor. Erestor has read about this custom, but this is the first time he has experienced it.

“Mae govannen,” the stranger says, “I am Glorfindel.” He offers no other title.

“Glorfindel?” Erestor asks. “Like the Balrog Slayer?”

Glorfindel smiles down at him. “Technically, no.”

II. A few years later, a terrible winter descends on the Hidden Valley, cold enough to freeze the Bruinen River solid. The war grinds to a halt in the face of the bitter chill and there is much rejoicing for no enemy dares brave the ice and snow.

Before long, all work stops to play in the snow. A few enterprising young elves strap thin blades to their boots and use them to skate across the Bruinen. At first, their elders call them back, cautioning them against breaking ice, but the ice only grows thicker and soon nearly all of Imladris is skating the Bruinen as often as they are able.

Even Erestor puts aside his books to skate, although he spends more time slipping and falling than actually skating.

The only one not caught up in the joy is Glorfindel.

He spends most of his days holed up in his room or the library. He does not step foot on the Bruinen, not even at the ford, where the water is only ankle deep and he wears a heavy black cape trimmed with sable fur.

There is a fatigue in his expression, indeed in every line of his body, that Erestor has never seen. Glorfindel is usually the most mirthful of Elrond’s House, always ready to laugh or jest or throw his work aside for dancing or singing. To see him act otherwise disturbs Erestor greatly.

On the eve of Midwinter, Erestor corners Glorfindel in the library.

“Why do you not join us on the river?” he asks, his tone as light as he can make it.

Glorfindel looks up from his book. “Ice breaks,” he says.

“Not for many months yet,” Erestor laughs. “The river is solid enough.”

“Perhaps,” Glorfindel says. He does not speak another word that day and no laugh passes his lips until the Bruinen thaws.

III. It starts out as a routine visit to Eryn Galen. King Oropher, a notorious reveler, has decreed that all trade negotiations are to be held in his palace during the Midsummer Feast. Since the Greenwood is the key to trade over the Misty Mountains, Lord Elrond gladly consents. 

Erestor rides in his company at Lord Elrond’s right hand. Glorfindel rides in the rear, his eyes constantly scanning for danger. He is the only one who does not feel the festive mood. His fear is not without cause. They have not yet entered into Oropher’s own realm and there are creatures lurking the surrounding wood, driven by no purpose that Erestor knows but full to the brim with malice

The threat is slim for such a large party, so Glorfindel is the only warrior among them. Lord Elrond and a few others are armed, but they have no intention nor need of using their weapons.

About halfway through the journey, they are set upon by giant spiders. Erestor has read of the spawn of Ungoliant, but they are more fearsome and hideous than he had imagined even in his darkest dreams. He panics, retreating into himself, making himself as small and still as possible while Lord Elrond and his company slay the beasts.

When he comes back to himself, the forest floor is strewn with the corpses of the spiders and the air is thick with the stench of black blood.

Lord Elrond remounts, wiping his sword clean on his traveling robes. Erestor shudders in disgust at the thought of what the work his lord creates for the poor tailors. Tailors, he can deal with. He tries to ignore the spiders.

“We ride on,” Lord Elrond orders. 

The company starts moving but there is no flash of gold in the corner of Erestor’s vision. He turns around.

Glorfindel stands, gripping Asfaloth’s bridle loosely in one hand. He stares at the ground, watching a trail of blood ooze along a splintered throwing knife.

“Glorfindel,” Erestor calls. “Come on.”

Glorfindel doesn’t react.

“We have to keep going,” Lord Elrond says in Quenya.

Glorfindel shakes himself and mounts Asfaloth, his sword still in his sheathe. 

IV. If Erestor never has to read a Gondolian text again, it will be too soon. He is supposed to be the Loremaster to the greatest scholar in Middle-Earth but the tongue of Gondolin is his nemesis as surely as Lord Tulkas is the Enemy’s. 

All the words are neatly printed tengwar, unlike the barely legible scrawl of Men, but the language perplexes him at every turn. It’s some bastardized mix of Sindarin and Quenya thrown together without any rhyme or reason, full of quirks and exceptions Erestor has never encountered elsewhere. There are even a few words that, as near as he can figure, bear a close resemblance to Black Speech.

The work he’s trying to translate is beyond priceless: an account by a survivor of the House of the Fountain who had witnessed firsthand Lord Ecthelion’s duel with Gothmog.

He started working at sunrise, but the shadows are already lengthening when Glorfindel wanders into the library.

“What do you want?” Erestor snaps. There’s more venom in his tone than necessary, but Glorfindel only enters the library as a last resort.

Glorfindel doesn’t answer, comes up behind Erestor’s shoulder, tilts his head left and right, squinting at the text. Glorfindel’s memory of songs and tales is second only to Erestor’s, but reading is a labor to him.

“I don’t suppose you’d be able to help me with this,” Erestor sighs, desperation checking his pride.

Glorfindel hums. His eyes flick back and forth between the text and Erestor’s translation. “Here,” he murmurs. “This line refers to Lord Ecthelion’s sword, not Gothmog’s.”

“But without the possessive, that line can only refer to Gothmog,” Erestor protests. Glorfindel’s explanation makes sense, but only if Erestor chooses to ignore grammar entirely. 

“It’s the Quenya word for sword,” Glorfindel explains. “The author married into Lord Ecthelion’s house. He was originally of the Hammer of Wrath. They don’t use possessives.”

That linguistic quirk is certainly well documented, but it fails to assuage all Erestor’s confusion.

“How did you know where he’s from?” he asks.

Glorfindel doesn’t answer.

V. Eighty years after Glorfindel comes to Imladris, Lord Elrond throws a massive feast to commemorate the Fall of Gondolin. The mood is somber, as is to be expected, but Lord Elrond ends the night with tales of the heroes of Gondolin.

As the Loremaster, Erestor speaks the parts of the tale too grim for Lindir to sing. He has spoken before of King Fingolfin’s Fall, of the torment of Maedhros, of the death of the Two Trees of Valinor. He looks out over the crowd and his eyes fall on Glorfindel, standing the corner of the Hall of Fire. His lips are curved into the shape of a smile, but there is no light of mirth in his eyes.

At least, Lindir reaches the final song of the night: the Duel of Lord Glorfindel and the Balrog on Cirith Thoronath. 

Halfway through, Glorfindel interrupts. “If you insist on telling this thrice-damned, at least have the common courtesy to tell it right,” he shouts, his voice cutting through the music.

Lindir’s sweet voice fades out. 

“This is the tale as told by the survivors of Gondolin,” Lord Elrond explains patiently. “It is the most accurate version of the story we have.”

Glorfindel throws back his head and laughs bitterly. “Then they remembered wrong. Or told the story to make it pretty and painless, something to celebrate, not something to mourn. Do you even realize what you’re doing, singing of glorious death? There are no glorious deaths, not in the memory of the dead.”

Lindir draw himself up in a rage. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, tears pooling in his eyes. “We have sung this tale hundreds of times. This is the closest thing we can get to being there ourselves.”

Glorfindel clenches his fists and Erestor almost fears he will go for his sword. He calms himself down and stalks up to the dais to tower over Lindir. Erestor has always suspected that Glorfindel is more powerful than many realize, but he blazes like a flame made flesh.

“You. Weren’t. There,” Glorfindel hisses and his voice is raindrops on singing steel. “I was. Do not presume to tell me of my own memories.”

With that, he storms out of the hall.

VI. Erestor follows. He regrets it before he even starts to move, but still he follows. Glorfindel moves quickly, not running but not slowing down. The warm summer air plays with the edges of his cloak. If not for his shining hair, he would be almost invisible in the dark. Erestor follows him the the bridge by the waterfall. Glorfindel stops only to strip off his cloak and tunic before he dives into the river.

Erestor freezes in place, his heart pounding like a battering ram, until Glorfindel emerges, floating lazily in the river, thick ropes of hair streaming around him like rays of sun.

“You,” Erestor whispers. “You are the Balrog Slayer, back from the dead.” 

Glorfindel doesn’t speak, but he closes his eyes and lets his glamours fall. Most elves wear some form of glamour to hide any minor scars or flaws, but Glorfindel’s scars are beyond massive. Thick red burns cover most of his body and lacerations account for the rest. There isn’t an inch of skin left unmarred.

“How?” Erestor asks.

Glorfindel laughs. “A gift from the Valar,” he murmurs. The glamours return, his perfect, deep-brown skin glistening where the starlight dances on the water. His eyes track the stars and he gestures towards them languidly. “They decreed that I should return.” His voice is barely audible over the susurrus of the river. 

Erestor removes his light slippers, lets his toes dangle in the water, leaning out over the bridge. “Did you want to come back?”

Glorfindel looks at Erestor for a moment and his eyes are as gold as his hair, shining with power and unshed tears.

“No,” he confesses. “I wanted to rest.” He blinks and his eyes fade back to brown.

For a moment, the only sound is the song of the Bruinen. Even the Hall of Fire is silent, still reeling from Glorfindel’s exit. Then, Erestor extends a hand.

“Come back to my room,” he offers. “Lord Elrond’s people know better than to disturb me. You can rest there for the night.”

Glorfindel takes his hand.

Erestor spends the rest of the night perched in a window, watching the stars make their way across the heavens. He knows he will be stiff and tired tomorrow, but it will be worth it. At least one of them will sleep in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon for Glorfindel is that he's black with gold dreadlocks and dyslexic. He also has lingering trauma from, among other things, the Helcaraxë, Nan Dungortheb, and dying. 
> 
> The fourth section also features my needlessly elaborate headcanons for the Gondolinian dialect. The relevant one is that the people of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, who were canonically comprised largely of elves who escaped Morgoth's dungeons, have their own separate dialect which notably lacks any way to indicate possession (such as my, his, belonging to them) to indicate their refusal to be possessed. 
> 
> This took an obscenely long time to write because I wrote about half and then forgot about it for a while so I may have lost my train of thought halfway through.


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